Return to the Pine
by Fallon-Idalia
Summary: A decade has passed since the Crawler's demise and although all seems quiet, Queen Maya knows it is merely the calm before the storm. As a new threat rises in Silverpines, a familiar face returns from the Spire intent on finding redemption. With the help of old friends and a broken slave from across the sea, Shiloh must unite the warring balverines or face the genocide of her kind.


**A/N:** I do not own the Fable universe; I am merely borrowing it for the purposes of this tale. Characters you do not recognize are mine however (Azrael, Shiloh, Dacre, Elspeth). This story contains scenes of an extremely mature nature (sex, angst, dark themes, torture) and is rated **M** for a reason.

Please be warned that this chapter starts out with scenes of murder and torture – you have been warned!

This story is the sequel to my story "Wolves of the Pine"; you may find it difficult to follow if you have not read the first one since it is strongly driven by OCs. To everyone who has been waiting for this sequel – thank you for your patience! The mini-story set in this universe, "Coming Home", will still be completed. I was just excited to get this posted for you all! I hope you do not mind :)

Thank you for reading and for any and all reviews! - Fallon.

**Prologue**

"_It is not in the stars to hold our destiny, but ourselves." – William Shakespeare_

The night was quiet save for the clash of waves upon the shore.

A crippled old man limped up the twisting path to the lighthouse, leaning heavily on an oak walking stick. He had made the climb nightly for over fifty years, and he knew that if Avo was willing he would do it for a few more. He was alone now, left with nothing other than his duty to keep the light aflame.

But that was enough for him.

Finally at the top, he dug through his pocket in search of his ring of keys. The ring only held three keys, two of which unlocked nothing, but he always tried all three on the door before he found success. Old age had given him sore fingers and a horrid memory, but he never complained.

A whisper of sound in the silence caught his ear and he peered out across the sea. In the distance the Tattered Spire loomed like an obsidian blade cutting into the sky. Even after years of dormancy it still unnerved him like it had when he was a boy.

The old man waited for something to happen, for the sound to repeat itself, but only the music of crickets and waves was to be heard.

Smiling to himself, the old man finally selected the correct key and was able to unlock the lighthouse door.

"Boo." The wind whispered softly.

Before he could react, excruciating pain spread across his lower back. The old man gasped and dropped his walking stick, but a hand clamped down over his mouth before he could scream.

Someone forced him inside and violently twisted the blade in his back before ripping it out.

He tried to catch his breath, but he felt like he had been kicked in the chest. Just down the road he knew Gemma and Rhys, the village blacksmith, were safe in their beds. Aid was so close, but the old man was powerless to call out.

"Be still, fool..."

Teeth dug into his neck from behind and the old man soon went limp. He felt warm liquid spill over his shoulder and pool around him. He told himself to fight, to resist the pull of death, but no gods were listening. A chill spread over his body as piss dripped down his leg.

When the life blood finally stopped flowing from the old man, Azrael licked his hands clean of blood as he entered the house. He found a mirror propped up against an old fire place and, using the light of the moon, made sure his face was clean. In the many years he had spent perfecting his craft, not once had he been so sloppy as to leave wearing his prey on him.

That was the mistake of an amateur.

Azrael straightened the lapels of his coat before the mirror.

His brown hair and goatee were trimmed short, as he discovered early on that blood and long hair did not mix well. Pale scars ran down his cheeks from his eyes, making it look like he was always crying. Two scars ran parallel between his eyebrows, running down the sides of his nose; the parting gift from an old friend.

He sauntered out of the house, stopping momentarily to snatch the old man's walking stick, and slipped into the darkness.

* * *

Her limbs ached fiercely despite the advantage her balverine blood gave her but she was nearly there, nearly on dry land. The wind was wild but now at least the waves were aiding her in her approach.

In the distance she could see the lights of a village, but she purposefully swam away from them. Until she got her bearings and learned what she had missed, she knew she'd stand out too much. She had been gone too long, and was so unaware of what changes the last ten years had brought upon the mainland that when she finally dug her fingers into the soft sand of the shore, she felt like she was on a different world.

She pulled herself up, dragging seaweed along with her and collapsed in a heap in the sand. Having been running on pure adrenaline for the last few hours, Shiloh wanted nothing more than to sleep, her body demanded it.

But she couldn't, not so long as the Spire loomed over her.

Cursing, she forced herself onto her feet and stumbled into the woods not too far from the beach. As soon as she immersed herself in the embrace of the trees she felt more at ease. But she did not get far before her limbs began to feel heavy and her vision blurred as her world spun.

_Vienna…Scarlet…Maya…Von…Father…_

A breath caught in her throat.

Everything she had spent the past ten years burying away inside of her came to the surface. She faltered, swaying on her feet, and fell to her knees.

A pain flashed behind her eyes and, mercifully, darkness overcame her before her body hit the ground.

* * *

He knew better than to question her, better than to fight or resist her desires.

Years in her care had taught him what the consequences would be.

But every time the whip made contact with his back and her laughter and taunts rang out in his ears he felt himself flinch as if to make a move to miss the next lash.

Naked and bloody, Dacre had lost track of how long he had been standing there and of the number of blows he had taken. The skin of his back, buttocks and thighs were raw and numb; the sheer ferocity of it enough to summon tears to the eyes of a lesser man.

Tears angered her however, and would serve to only lengthen the duration of his torture.

He bit them back and reminded himself that despite the horrors inflicted upon them, at least he would not be able to see the reminders of his mistress's 'affections'.

The lashes stopped and he heard the whip hit the ground followed by ever so soft footsteps circling him.

His lady stopped in front of him, reaching up and out to grasp a handful of his hair. She ripped off the blindfold that covered his scarred eyes, jerking his hair roughly by the roots as she did so.

He squeezed his marred eyes shut.

"Open your eyes, boy." She sneered, the heat of her breath on his neck.

Terror tore through him.

Despite knowing better, Dacre spoke.

"Mistress…p-please…"

His voice was strained and weak, his throat as dry as his long forgotten desert homeland.

Elspeth slapped him, her nails racking his cheek, "Open them!"

With a whimper, Dacre opened his eyes.

Though there was little light in the room, it stung his eyes so badly tears streaked down his cheeks and his chin trembled. Through the tears and the burning pain, Dacre could see little.

The branding iron his lady had pressed into his eyes years ago made sure of that.

"On your knees," Elspeth whispered, her voice husky with desire, "And don't you dare close your eyes!"

He did as he was told, maintaining as much eye contact with her as his blind eyes could manage as she hiked up her skirts.

As his tongue slipped between the slick folds of her womanhood, Elspeth bit her lip and dug her fingers into his tussled mane of dark hair.

"Good boy."


End file.
